


Kissing Death (and Losing my Breath)

by thesafesthands



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Clint is trying to be a good bro (I swear he tried), Clintasha is the funny subplot joke, Fluff, Ghost Bucky, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Natasha is flawless, Nurse Steve, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, mother hen bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesafesthands/pseuds/thesafesthands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you came in, did you see anybody else? In here? In the apartment? A man with a ponytail, and... and a Captain America shirt?"</p><p>Clint's eyes narrowed, and he put his hand on Steve's forehead again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from the song _Bones_ by Ms Mr  
>  Plot's 100% inspired by the book [The Ghost on My Couch](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10664518-the-ghost-on-my-couch) (it's really a cute book so if you want the better version of this, you should defo check it out! :D)
> 
> This fic is in the process of being finished/rewritten!

* * *

 

Steve was never the fiery tempered type. If anything, his few friends would all assure you that Steven Grant Rogers was as nice as they come. Short and on the skinny side, he'd never hurt a fly, mostly because he  _couldn't_ even if he wanted. The only muscle he's got is his tongue, and it only tended to get sharp when he was in a particularly bad mood.

Steve was sweet as honey, but today, nobody could fault him for snapping at Sharon, the receptionist at the hospital where Steve worked. He couldn't also be faulted for not giving his seat up for the old lady on the subway who spent the entire trip glaring down at him through her thick glasses.

Steve had spent the  _worst_ day ever at the hospital, and just didn't have any patience or kindness to spare after ten hours of cleaning vomit from his scrubs, changing chamber pots, getting called a "fag" by an old man who refused to let Steve give him his injection because he was afraid of catching the "dirty aids", only to end the day with a dressing down by one of the doctors who apparently hated his guts and wanted him fired or maybe worse and never missed an occasion to humiliate Steve in front of the patients.

Today was the worst day of Steve's entire life, and God knew he'd been through some awful shit in twenty-six years.

So when he finally entered his cramped apartment and closed the door behind himself, he slowly slid to the floor and let out the tears that'd been threatening to spill all day, face scrunching as he pressed it against his knees to muffle the accompanying sobs.

It took a while for Steve to calm down, and when he was done crying, his chest was still heaving painfully with hiccups, and he really needed to blow his runny nose.

It was something that happened a bit too often to Steve's liking, this breakdown soon as he was home alone, and the subsequent crying. But he couldn't help it, he needed to do something to alleviate the pressure he lived under everyday.

Being a nurse wasn't easy, and being a  _male_ nurse was even worse. Nowhere did Steve ever get any semblance of recognition for his dedication to his patients, and on his workplace he had to fend for himself against homophobes and narrow-minded assholes and a great part of the staff who thought he was an easy target to pick on and leave with the most thankless tasks.

And it wasn't as if Steve had many acquaintances he could call and vent to whenever he felt down. His closest friend was Clint and the guy was straight as an arrow, so talking about his feelings with him wasn't exactly possible. Over the years Steve had developed a kind of platonic crush for his friend and from time to time he'd still end up over-sharing with Clint, only to end up with a beer in hand, sitting in a bar at three in the morning because that was Clint's method of dealing with life's problems.

Aside from Clint and some of his co-workers, Steve had no one else. He broke up with his last boyfriend eight months ago, and hadn't been with anyone for at least six months. Steve wasn't attractive, it was a fact, so men weren't exactly throwing themselves at his feet. The biggest compliment he's ever got was when a hook-up said he found him "interesting" with his scrawny frame that made him look so fragile and—Steve _hated_ it—effeminate.

He was too pale, too thin, too short, and basically an excess of everything unattractive to gay men. If he was being honest, Steve wouldn't want to date himself either, let alone have  _sex_ with himself.

In fact, Steve's type looked exactly the opposite: he always went for big men with strong, muscled arms; men that looked  _manly—_ unlike him. He just wished one of them would sweep him off his feet and see everything Steve had to give, everything that Steve hoped was beautiful in him on the _inside_ , and who wouldn't give a damn about the looks. Steve had a fierce, combative soul whenever he was faced with bullies who were trying to take unfair advantage of him, or his patients, but he couldn't help wishing he could come home to someone who'd love him unconditionally and make him feel safe and cared for in turn.

But those were only dreams, and Steve had to deal with his miserable reality instead.

When he felt a little bit steadier, Steve stood up and finally took off his coat and shoes. Once he was done, he went to his tiny bedroom that looked more like a closet than an actual room, took his clothes off and blew his nose, trying not to think about the tear soaked paper tissues that were piling in his trashcan by the bed. Then he went to take a good, long, hot shower in his claustrophobic bathroom to rinse away the stench from another full working day at the hospital.

An hour later, he was curled up on one end of his couch—his small khaki couch, all patched-up and covered in suspicious stains—watching a rerun of some musical show on his crappy TV, a bowl of microwaved noodles warming his chilled hands. He didn't really follow the show but it made him laugh sometimes, and Steve needed anything that could cheer him up tonight.

"What a douche," Steve mumbled to himself after a while, "I forgot I can't stand this Sebastian guy."

"They should fucking give us back the original Warblers, is what I _always_ say."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, "I miss the time when—"

Steve froze as he was about to chew on a spoonful of noodles. He turned to look at the other end of the couch, and what he saw made him almost choke to death.

There was a stranger sitting on his couch.

There was a _stranger_ in his  _apartment,_ and he was  _watching TV_   _with Steve._

Steve spilled his bowl onto his lap and forced himself to swallow so he could let out the most unmanly scream he'd ever heard, and the other guy looked back at him in shock. Then they both scrambled to stand up and run as far as possible from one another.

"What the f—who  _are_ you?!" Steve yelled at the man now standing on the other side of the room while the teens onscreen were breaking into a song again.

The other man's eyes were wide open, and he was standing there on the other side of the room, gaping at Steve as if  _he_ was the stranger on somebody else's couch in somebody else's apartment. Steve discreetly checked that everything in the room belonged to him, and that he hadn't broken into someone else's place by mistake. But no, everything was his, every cheap item had been paid with Steve Rogers' meager salary.

"So you can _see_ me, now?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

What kind of a question was that? Steve blinked and chose to ignore the man's unusual reaction.

"What are you doing here?  How did you get into my apartment?"

The man scratched the back of his neck and his eyes darted around, as if looking for an answer written on the walls. Some part of Steve's brain that wasn't busy freaking out noticed that the stranger was downright _gorgeous_ with his tall frame and strong, muscled arms. And when Steve got a glimpse of the man's small ponytail, on anyone else he'd have found it dorky and unattractive but on this man, it looked kind of good. But those thoughts were quickly forgotten when Steve felt the first signs of an asthma attack coming. He already had a hard time breathing, and the sharp pain in his chest that always accompanied the attacks was back with a vengeance. This could become ugly very soon if he didn't calm down and get a hold of his inhalator.

"I can't really... Listen, it's complicated."

"Is this a robbery? Are you _robbing_ me?," Steve wheezed, and one of his hands flew to his throat when he started coughing, his vision becoming blurry with mounting tears.

It hurt, coughing made the pain in his chest only worse and he couldn't breathe; he  _couldn't_.

"Pal, you need to calm down, I'm not trying to rob you. Ain't much to rob here, anyway," the man added derisively, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"You're some kind of psychopath, then! Oh my _god_ , you're a psycho-maniac killer and you've come to kill me and make slippers out of my skin!"

Steve heard the man groan as he was wrestling with another coughing fit. Then he noticed the man moving from the corner of one eye and he immediately stumbled backwards.

"No! Stay away from me!"

"I'm serious, you need to fucking calm down, you're turning all red and it's kinda scaring me. Please, I won't hurt you, I swear. Just— _hear me out_."

Steve shook his head, refusing to listen to the stranger who could be a master manipulator slash psychopath killer slash robber. Bent in half, he managed to stumble backwards to his coat and took his inhalator out of the breast pocket, inhaling his medicine deeply under the other man's curious gaze, hand shaking uncontrollably and the inhalator clattering against his teeth.

Eventually the pain in his chest subsided somewhat, and Steve took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. When he looked up to the stranger, he noticed some small things he'd overlooked at first. For example, he noticed that the man was standing bare foot, and that his only clothing was a pair of baggy sleeping pants and... a Captain America t-shirt. That looked more like the clothes of someone about to go to bed, not someone who wanted to kill a poor male nurse in their crappy apartment at half past midnight on a Friday night.

And just like that, the sight of the other man's getup eased out Steve's fear of getting murdered tonight. But it still didn't explain his presence in his apartment.

"Just tell me how you got in here." He croaked eventually, still gulping breaths like a drowning man even though he felt steadier than a moment ago, and the tears in his eyes had dried. "And then leave."

Steve stood a bit straighter and even found the courage to put his hands on his hips, trying to look only a bit as menacing as he _wanted_ to appear. He knew he had to look ridiculous, though, like a small kitten trying to roar but only emitting pitiful meows.

But a man had his pride, so Steve tried, and ignored the other man's scoff.

"I don't know."

"How can you  _not_  know?"

"I already told you, it's  _complicated!_ "

Steve felt worn out after the disastrous day at work and the aborted asthma attack and he couldn't care less about the mystery of the stranger suddenly appearing in his apartment. He just wanted to go to bed, already! Which is why he was starting to get extremely cranky.

"Alright, it doesn't matter, I'm giving you ten seconds to leave before I'm calling the cops."

Steve grabbed his phone and was already dialing Clint's number, moving to go open his front door when he heard the man clear his throat. He turned around to see that the man hadn't moved an inch. He probably wasn't taking Steve seriously, and it made Steve's blood boil in his veins, vision turning red. So yeah, he maybe didn't look very threatening but this was his  _home_ , damn it, and he wasn't letting anyone ridicule him in his _own_ _home!_

"I told you to leave!" He yelled, although a tad breathlessly.

"And I told you that I can't!" The man retorted. "Look!"

Then the man put one of his hands through the lamp next to the couch, and Steve forgot how to breathe when he saw the man's fingers wriggling as they reappeared on the other side.

"I can't leave. Believe me, I've _tried_ but I've been stuck here for the last two days. And I'm also pretty sure I'm dead."

Steve stared in disbelief at the other man, noticing how in the dim light of his living room he looked kind of colorless, and maybe a little bit translucent. Like a honest to god  _ghost_ indeed.

"This... is not possible," he muttered, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and Steve fainted.

" _Fuck!_ "

In the ghost's defense, when Steve lost consciousness he actually ran through the couch and tried to catch the smaller man before he could fall. Unfortunately, the smaller man's upper body went through the ghost's extended arms like they weren't even there, and he still landed on the floor with a quiet  _thud_.

"Ah,  _damn_ it!" The ghost cursed, punching the air moodily.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Hey, Steve!"_

_"!Stevie, come on"_

_"STEVE!"_

He came to with a startle, and immediately noticed the sting and warmth radiating from his cheek.

Steve was lying on his couch, and there was a shadow standing on his right.

"You slapped me." He accused the man crouched beside him.

The world all around him was a big blur, but when two big hands helped him sit up, he blinked furiously until everything went back into focus. He turned his head and found himself staring into the worried eyes of his friend Clint Barton, still in his NYPD uniform.

"Good morning, princess," he said lightly, "and thanks for giving me the fright of my life. _Love_ starting my day by saving your ass."

Then his friend's features hardened and he added, voice suddenly so low it sounded like thunder. "By the way, pull this kind of stunts on me again and I'm gonna throttle you myself. I'm not even kidding."

For once Steve didn't marvel at how he had ended up being friends with a cop, or how said cop had the most beautiful hazel eyes he'd ever seen and was built like he came straight from Steve's favorite wet dream—or how such a perfect specimen could also care about someone like Steve. In his very own, very  _rude_ kind of way.

His first thought wasn't how Clint had ended up in his apartment, either. Or even how long he'd been unconscious.

It was about the ghost.

"Did-did-did you see it? It was here, it was... and then the lamp... it went right through it, Clint, I saw it! It was real!"

"OK, calm down, buddy. What the hell are you blathering about. Shit, you're burning up," Clint said after gently applying the back of his hand over Steve's forehead to check on his temperature.

Steve sighed, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"When you came in, did you see anybody else? In here? In the apartment? A man with a ponytail, and... and a Captain America shirt?"

Clint's eyes narrowed, and he put his hand on Steve's forehead again.

Steve slapped it away and stood up on shaky legs. "You didn't see anyone?"

"No, I didn't see anyone else than your sorry ass freezing on the floor. Seriously, what were you doing calling me up at ass o'clock and not saying anything. All I heard is you falling on the ground and then just harsh breathing. I thought you were having another attack!"

"Sorry," Steve eventually let out.

He'd probably fallen on the phone and called Clint by accident. Which was actually a good thing, because now he had someone real who could verify that it had all just been Steve's tired mind making up things, and seeing stuff that wasn't _(couldn't)_ be real.

"So... no tall dudes in nerdy shirts?"

"Nope. Wait, was it one of your hook-ups or something? Did that guy knock you out? Just tell me that you have his number and I'm gonna track that  _motherfucker_ down and tear him a new one."

Clint grabbed Steve by the shoulders and looked right into the smaller man's eyes with something fierce burning in his gaze, and for a moment Steve was truly scared. But immediately after he let out a small laugh and shrugged Clint's hands off, shaking his head.

"No, it wasn't... Forget it, I'm just very tired and I don't know what I'm saying anymore. What time is it, by the way?"

"Three in the morning. And my shift begins at six. I hope you're happy for messing my sleeping schedule, you pussy."

"Oh, are we back to the cat nicknames?"

"Yes we are. You gave me the fright of my life, which means I'm allowed to call you any derogatory gay names I want."

"Jerk."

"Twink."

"How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Hm, about that. I _think_ you'll need to call your landlord."

" _What?_ "

Steve ran to his front door, and found the lock completely blown. Clint had visibly shot it to get into his apartment.

"I can't believe this. You actually _shot_ my front door!"

"I thought you were half-dead already!" Clint retorted, nudging with his boot the inhalator Steve had dropped at some point during his argument with the ghost.

The same ghost that wasn't anywhere to be seen at the moment as Steve quickly scanned the place, and who was most probably nothing more than a figment of his imagination. An hallucination due to overwork. And nothing more.

"It'll teach you a lesson. Don't scare your awesome friend Clint and give him gray hair before he's even hit his forties. Ever. Again."

"It's not like I did it on purpose! I think-I think I just fell asleep on my phone and dialed your number by accident," Steve lied through his teeth, looking anywhere but at Clint.

"You fell asleep _on the_ _floor?_ "

"I was exhausted."

Clint did that thing when he looked Steve up and down with his eyes narrowed, as if not buying Steve's story at all. It was a cop thing, he liked to say, and it always made Steve feel like his _soul_  was being x-rayed.

Eventually his friend sighed and let himself fall down on Steve's couch, grimacing when he felt the cold wet patch from the spilled bowl of noodles. He shifted away as Steve quickly fetched a napkin from his kitchen and picked up the food, throwing it in the trash before joining him on the couch.

"You know, if you  _actually_ had somebody here, maybe I wouldn't have to run across the city for false alerts at three in the morning."

"Jesus, thanks," Steve snapped and meant to stand up, "sorry if being my friend is such a  _bother_."

But Clint's arm was suddenly hooked around his thin shoulders and he pulled the smaller man against his side before he could escape, chin resting on top of the other man's head. Steve didn't resist the one-armed hug, and snuggled instead against his friend's bigger and warmer body.

"I didn't mean it like that, you idiot. I only wish I didn't have reasons to worry, alright? I wish you had somebody, even if it's just some one-night stand. You need people around to take care of you, we both know that, and I just don't understand why you're choosing to be alone."

"I'm not choosing anything, Clint."

Steve sighed. He hated having this conversation all over again. Wasn't it obvious why he wasn't bringing much strangers to his place?

"Do you  _really_ want to talk about my love life?"

"Nah, not really." Steve punched his shoulder in reply, but Clint didn't seem to notice. "But I know  _you_ need to talk about it, and I'm trying to be a good friend to my gay buddy, here. So speak, now, or I'm gonna have to make you."

The last part sounded like a legit threat, so Steve found himself complying despite himself.

"Gee, haven't you seen me lately? I know you think being gay means getting it a lot more than straight guys do but, that's not true for all of us. I tried meeting people at bars after breaking up with Mark, tried going out more but it just-it didn't work out. I mostly ended up with weirdos, and the sex wasn't even _that_ good, anyway."

"Wow, wow, TMI, I don't wanna hear about you touching uglies with other boys," Clint said in a mocking tone, and Steve had to resist punching him again. "You could try online dating, maybe?"

"Listen, Clint, there's no other way I can put it. I'm just... _not_ what people are looking for."

Clint turned to look at him, and Steve held his gaze stubbornly.

"I'm not muscled enough to be attractive, I'm not tall enough to be a pretty twink and... and I don't have anything even _vaguely_ looking like an ass!"

"Oh, yeah? What's that, then?" Clint teased and grabbed a handful of Steve's ass before squeezing it playfully.

"What the f— _stop it!_ "

They were suddenly wrestling good-naturedly on the couch, Steve trying to kick Clint and the latter avoiding all of Steve's attack effortlessly until Steve was a giggling mess, trapped in his friend's arms again. They staid like that for a while, and when Steve eventually managed to catch his breath Clint released him, ruffled his hair one last time befpre standing up, and making a show of straightening his uniform.

"Well, if you think you can make it to bed without breaking a bone, or a _nail_ , I think I'll get going. I'm gonna have to drive straight to the office, by the way. Thanks to you."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve waved him off, standing up to see him to his ruined front door and promising to call more often, but never again after midnight. "Next time we'll have a long heart-to-heart about  _your_ relationships, Barton. Or lack thereof."

"I don't need your gay tips to get girls,  _Rogers_."

"But I know this girl, Natasha, she's really nice and—"

"OK, I'm gonna have to stop you right here."

"Why?"

"She sounds fat."

"I never said she was fat!"

"Yeah, well, when you start with things like _"she's really nice"_ and blablah instead of describing the girl, it generally means she's not the looker. Ergo, she's fat."

"Alright, she's maybe _curvy_ , but I promise you you'd like her. She's head nurse at the hospital where I work and we're very good friends—"

"Now she sounds bossy. And boring.  _And_ fat."

Steve was about to start defending his friend's honor when he noticed Clint fighting off his laughter. He was being made fun of, again.

"Oh, forget it, she's actually too good for you!"

"I bet she is," Clint replied very solemnly.

Steve was torn between wanting to laugh and kicking his friend in the sheen for being such an asshole.

After Clint left, Steve pushed one of his chest of drawers from his bedroom to the entry, trying to barricade his unlocked door from the inside in case someone tried to break in after noticing the state of his lock. He needed to call his landlord soon as he was up tomorrow. Or, since they were already tomorrow, later this morning.

As usual, talking to Clint hadn't magically solved all his problems, Steve thought as he headed towards his bedroom, turning off the lights on his way. And he didn't really expect his friend to understand how Steve felt, but it still felt good to talk about it to someone, even if it was only Clint who wanted Steve to be happy but didn't really care about the details.

And that online dating idea Clint had? That worried him. If Clint was thinking about it, chances were he'd be nagging Steve about it in the foreseeable future until he finally gave in and made himself an account on some website. Or until Clint lost patience and made him one himself.

When he thought about the absurdities Clint would write on his online profile, Steve felt shivers run down his spine. He  _had_ to make sure Clint never went that far to get him laid.

 

* * *

 

From the inside of the fridge, the ghost was staring through his transparent hands, a lock of hair slowly sliding out of his ponytail and falling into his eyes. He couldn't see or feel it though, so he didn't care putting it back in place.

He had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation ever since the other man (Clint) had burst into the apartment after a series of gunshots (the fact that none of Steve's neighbors had called the police or even come to see what was happening was telling enough about the kind of dangerous neighborhood Steve lived in), and he couldn't help feeling a bit touched by Steve's self-deprecating.

So maybe he had found Steve scrawny and unattractive and utterly boring the first couple of days he'd been haunting this place, but it wasn't as if he'd seen much of the man, whose shifts at the hospital (he had noticed the soiled scrubs) had been very hectic, Steve sometimes coming home late at night only to get a call and immediately head back out with a long-suffering groan. What he'd witnessed tonight was something new, though, and he wasn't sure if he felt embarrassed for eavesdropping on such a private conversation, annoyed for being forced to listen to it all seeing that he  _couldn't leave this damn_ apartment even if he _wanted_ ,or if he was maybe glad to finally learn more about the reserved man.

The ghost groaned internally. His death was _so_ boring that the life of an insecure skinny guy was starting to become interesting. He had finally reached rock bottom. And he had already suffered through Steve wandering around in his apartment  _naked_.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning was Saturday, which meant the beginning of a seriously needed week's vacation for Steve.

As usual on holidays, he woke up at eight, took a shower, ate his oatmeal absentmindedly and went grocery shopping so that he wouldn't need to go out for anything during the week. Steve'd be free to hole up in his apartment and forget about the outside world—exactly how he liked his holidays. With a minimum of stress, and a maximum of time alone so he could recharge his batteries and get ready to face work again.

Before going out he'd made sure to call his landlord about the door, and as he expected he'd been told the man would send him a locksmith during the course of the afternoon. He also found out that Clint had taken care of the expenses already, for which Steve was glad since he was the one who shot his door, after all. Steve was able to barricade his door from the inside but once he was out, there was nothing he could do but hope nobody would venture to the forth floor and look at it too closely.

Although Steve wasn't really worried about thieves breaking into his apartment because as his hallucination of yesterday had put it, there really wasn't anything worth stealing in his place. The only technology from the 21st century he owned was his phone, and he always carried it with himself along with his pager in case there was an emergency at the hospital.

Steve came back home feeling a lot better than he had the day before, and he was whistling a lively tune as he pushed the door open and put his shopping bags on the floor, turning around to close the door and push back the chest against it. Then he bent down, took his heavy bags and carried them to the small kitchen that was really nothing but a prolongation of the living room.

On his way he glanced at the couch, and almost dropped everything. There on the couch was the stranger again, sitting cross-legged with his back to him. Steve took a small, shaky breath and let it out.

_Alright, this is just overwork. Hallucinations. It'll go away._

Except that instead of going away, the hallucination turned its head to throw a bored look at Steve, and Steve's irritation from the day before was back in full force. Despite his decision to ignore this weird phenomenon, Steve couldn't help speaking to him.

It.

Whatever.

"Why are you still here?" He snapped.

"I'm not a robber or a psychopath and I haven't broken into your place," the ghost said in annoyance, putting an arm on the back of the couch and turning to fully face Steve. "Are we really gonna have this whole conversation again?"

Steve huffed, his grip on the shopping bags tightening before he went straight to the kitchen, avoiding looking at the ghost on his way.

He busied himself with unpacking and loading his empty cupboards but when he reached for the fridge he felt the air around him turn ice cold, and he couldn't help the little squeak of surprise when he noticed the ghost standing only a couple of feet away.

"Man, did you know that half of the stuff in your fridge is way past sell-by date?"

Steve found nothing better to do than blink at him in confusion.

He had never been so close to the ghost before, and now there was really no mistaking the way he could see through the man's body like it were made of smoke. The ghost was glowing slightly, something between pale gray and blue, and those were his only colors. Otherwise, Steve was incapable of telling the color of his eyes, or his hair, or the shade of his skin. What he could tell, though, was that if he were still living and breathing and Steve had met him in some bar, he'd have probably spent his night watching him because the nerdy shirt put aside, the man was breathtakingly handsome. He had a light stubble on his strong jaw Steve wished he could feel scratching his own skin, pouty lips made to be kissed and bitten, and he was taller than Steve, so much taller with a broad chest and arms Steve was willing to sell his soul to have. Or to feel wrapped around himself instead, squeezing him tight and keeping him warm.

On second thought—he liked the nerdy shirt too. It was what had put Steve a bit more at ease the first time, and it was oddly comforting to see a man so masculine wear something so... well,  _nerdy_.

It made Steve all warm inside, for some reason.

"E-e-excuse-me?"

The ghost sighed, and Steve felt a cold breeze on his face. Then his eyes opened wide like saucers when the ghost gestured towards the fridge and the tip of his fingers disappeared for a moment through the door. Steve felt bad for gawking, but he was kind of still coming to terms with having such vivid hallucinations. Or such  _crazy_ ones.

"Your milk's gone off and there's mold on your cheese—and not the good kind. Oh, and your eggs have gone bad, too. Do you even eat?" He asked, and pointedly stared at Steve's skinny form until Steve grew uncomfortable.

"I'm not starving myself! Or bulimic, if that's what you're implying," Steve snapped back, opening the door of the fridge a bit too violently and they could both hear the bottles inside shake and clink against one another. "I'll have you know that I take my three meals like everybody else. I'm just not that often at home, is all."

Which wasn't really a lie. But sometimes work was so time-consuming or he'd get so distracted, he never knew when those meals would happen, and he often ended up without dining before the wee hours of the morning. Which, he had been told, wasn't exactly ideal for his health. But he didn't tell the ghost, because his dietary regime was his own business, and not the spirit of some dead asshole's.

Because as attractive as he was, the man still struck Steve as the asshole-ish kind. He had seen a lot of his kind in the past when he used to go cruising everytime he had a night off. The way the ghost held himself, and looked and talked at him like he was something helpless that needed his enlightened advice, as if he wouldn't survive without, was something Steve loathed in people. It made him feel inferior and it had gotten him into at least half a dozen fights in his younger years.

What he didn't understand was why his brain would make up the type of person Steve couldn't stand. He wished he had some sort of control over his hallucinations.

"How do you know about that, anyway. You can see through things?"

That thought made him a bit uncomfortable, because he didn't exactly like the thought of some dead guy sneaking around his place and looking in the drawers.

 _He is_ not _real, Rogers! You must have seen the expiration date and your subconscious is just reminding you what you've forgotten. That's all!_

The ghost shrugged. "When your friend Clint came in I wanted to give you guys some privacy, so I hid inside your fridge."

"Seriously?" Steve tried to picture the man's big body folding on itself inside his fridge, and had to stifle a laugh. "You could have staid, you know. Maybe if Clint saw you..."

"What if he didn't, though? What if you had been the only one seeing me?"

Steve paused to think about it. And then really laughed.

"I'd probably be in a straitjacket right now."

The ghost nodded, as if he had thought the same. Unsure of what to add, Steve proceeded to unload the rest of his shopping bags under the ghost's unnerving watch, and the lull in the conversation didn't feel as uncomfortable as he'd expected. The other man remained where he was, arms crossed over his chest while he watched in silence. 

Steve then opened the fridge and checked all the products' expiring dates for himself. His milk, eggs and cheese were indeed gone bad, so he took them out and threw them in the trashcan under the sink. He hadn't bought any of those on his trip to the market, though, and he was already wondering what he was going to do without milk or eggs for the rest of the week. He had enough canned food to survive the week and more, but his breakfast was going to be dry for a while. He knew he could just go back and buy some milk but when he pictured the trip, he already felt exhausted. No, it'd have to wait the end of his vacation. He was too tired psychologically to do any more socializing and talking to people. 

The ghosts of dead people didn't count.

"Aren't you gonna ask?" 

Steve was with his back to the ghost and had just finished putting the folded bags away when he heard the ghost's voice. It was really nice, low and smoky and it gave Steve involuntary goosebumps.

He looked at the ghost over his shoulder, and saw the annoyance written all over the man's features was back, from his furrowed brows to the tight line that had become his mouth.

_This man is just a product of your tired mind, Rogers, stop talking to it or it'll never go away!_

Steve wasn't very good at following his own advice, though.

"Ask what?"

"My  _name!_ "

Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"You're not real," he explained, tone firm and determined. If he could convince himself, maybe it'll help make the hallucinations disappear faster.

He still heard the ghost's unhappy groan.

"I may be dead but I'm super fucking real. And also super fucking _bored_ , which is how I know that I'm real, actually. Hey, look at me."

Steve shook his head no, and tried to take a step towards the living room but he was suddenly surrounded by cold, and the sudden shift of temperature made him gasp.

" _Please._ "

The ghost's voice sounded so tiny and unsure that Steve couldn't help cracking one eye open. The man was looming over him, and although Steve  _knew_ he wasn't real and  _even if_ he was, the spirit of someone shouldn't feel intimidating but strangely enough, it did. Steve felt tiny and helpless, and the desperation in the ghost's voice tugged at his most sensitive heartstrings, forcing him to, at least, give the other man a chance.

"Alright," he sighed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pants. "Let's say you  _are_ real, I mean, a real... _ghost_. You know what I mean. Why are you haunting my place?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I can go wherever I want, but only as long as it's within the walls of your shit hole apartment."

"Hey!"

"What? Don't pretend you actually  _like_ this place."

The ghost raised his eyebrows, as if daring Steve to say otherwise. Steve felt himself blush when he couldn't bring himself to lie, but he still held the other man's gaze defiantly. The ghost smirked, and Steve glared, fists on his hips.

"This _"shit hole"_ is all I've got right now, and if you don't like it you are welcome to go haunt somebody else's home."

"As I already told you countless times, that's the tricky bit. I can't leave."

"Can't you just... teleport out of here? Close your eyes and think hard about the Buckingham Palace?"

The ghost rolled his eyes, arms falling to his sides. 

"How. Many. Times. Am I gonna have to tell you? I  _can't._ I'm stuck here with your skinny ass, for probably the rest of eternity!"

Steve tried to hide the hurt and embarrassment of being called a "skinny ass" but he knew he had failed when he saw the ghost bite his lip, a look of contrition crossing his features.

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"So," Steve went on, speaking a bit louder to cover what he suspected was going to be nothing but a hollow apology, "do you have some kind of unfinished business? Is this why you're still here?"

Steve gestured at the ghost, ignoring the annoyed look that was back on the other man's face. Probably from being cut off mid-sentence. Steve couldn't bring himself to feel sorry.

"I don't think so. The last thing I recall is riding my bike at night and then... it's nothing but a big blank."

"Oh, shit. You died in a road accident? That sucks."

Steve might not appreciate his ghost but he still felt sympathy for the man. The ghost only shrugged.

"I still haven't figured out what I was doing out dressed like that," the ghost said and they both looked down at his bare feet. "I only remember the road and driving fast. But where I was going, or why—not a clue."

"An emergency, maybe?" Steve suggested as he reached for the other man's chest on an impulse and his fingers went through the drawing of the Captain America shield. It felt like putting his hand in a bucket of ice water, but the feeling only lasted for a split second before his skin was breaking into goosebumps. "So you're a comics fan, huh? I'd never have pegged you as the nerdy type."

"I ain't no nerd," the ghost tried to swat his hand, but he went through Steve's thin wrist and sent a new wave of goosebumps up Steve's arm. "Everybody's got this type of shit at home, OK? And it's not like I was expecting anyone to see me like this. If only I'd known I was gonna die that night..."

"What would you be wearing, then?" Steve asked, unable to hide his smile at the way the other man crossed his arms again, only now realizing he'd been doing this a lot to try and hide his shirt. His very nerdy shirt. He tried not to think of how sad it was that they were talking about the man's death as if it weren't anything important.

At least the ghost didn't look chagrined by the subject, so Steve didn't mind talking about it. He still wasn't completely sure that he wasn't hallucinating all of this, but some part of him was starting to get accustomed to the idea that there was a ghost haunting his apartment, and although he seemed to be kind of a jerk, if he needed to talk about his death Steve wasn't going to stop him. He hoped it might actually serve the ghost, and maybe help him find the light on the other side of the tunnel, or whatever people said you were supposed to see after your death.

"I'd have put my favorite Gucci suit. _Fuck_ , I think I actually own like a couple of them."

Steve whistled.

"Sounds like you were loaded," he said, trying not to feel guilty about the use of "were" instead of "are".

The ghost didn't seem to pay any attention to his phrasing.

"But it'd be probably ruined after your accident. If it's your favorite you might not want that," Steve joked, and the ghost smirked in reply.

"My PJs still aren't my first choice of what to wear for all eternity. Wish there was a way I could take them off."

Steve tried not to blush but his face was flooding with warmth before he could even  _try_ to chase away the pictures of what the other man would look like wandering around in the nude. The other man noticed again, unfortunately, and his laugh was loud and honest, which made Steve blush even more.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He tried to nudge Steve playfully, but took Steve by surprise and made him startle when he felt cold in his right shoulder and then the fine hairs on his forearm standing on end with goosebumps.

"I meant taking it off so that I could put something else, you little perv."

"I'm not a—" Steve gasped, "I'm not a  _perv!"_

"But you  _did_ picture me naked for a moment, there? Am I right? Come on, you _totally_ did!"

Steve sighed, letting the ghost gloat and noticing that he didn't find this kind of self-assurance  _that_ much annoying anymore. He was starting to warm up to his ghost's antics.

"So, what's your name?"

Steve thought he saw the man smile, not a smirk but a small, genuine smile, but it was gone so fast he might have imagined it.

"My name's Bucky. And it's nice to be haunting your shit hole apartment, Steve."


	5. Chapter 5

For the next days, Steve and the ghost— _Bucky_ —fell into some kind of routine that wasn't really to Bucky's liking, but Steve wasn't ready to shake up his vacation plans just yet.

So every morning Bucky would wake Steve up by blowing on his face and calling his name none too gently, and if that didn't work he'd start singing out of tune until the cacophony made Steve throw his pillow in Bucky's general direction to try and make him stop. Bucky was a  _very_ bad singer, and the neighbors were lucky  _they_ couldn't hear him.

Then Steve would take a shower (after making sure each time that Bucky wasn't peeking at him from somewhere in the room, even though he  _knew_ Bucky wasn't interested in him  _that_ way) and take his breakfast on his small dining table, Bucky seated opposite him, busy trying to practice the telekinetic powers he was absolutely sure he'd develop at some point. Steve's bowl never moved an inch, but that didn't discourage Bucky the slightest, and Steve could respect that. He would still make faces whenever Steve called him a huge nerd for it.

After breakfast, Steve would go to his room to read a book or curl on the couch and watch television, and everytime Bucky would sit by him because surprisingly, he was an avid reader. They'd read the book together, Steve waiting until Bucky was finished with a page before turning to the next one, and they'd stay like this until it was time for Steve to make lunch.

And that was the part of the day Steve hated the most, because Bucky would hover around him all the time, forcing Steve to reach through him to grab an ingredient or a spoon, and he'd always urge Steve to put more meat in his stew, or to add more potatoes in the soup and so on until Steve had to turn the radio on and drown Bucky's constant fussing. It made Steve feel like he was back to living with his mother. Steve wasn't malnourished, he just didn't have a big appetite and he was fine with it. But Bucky's constant nagging only reminded him that he was unnaturally scrawny.

Sometimes Bucky would open up about his death and what he could recall of his life, which wasn't much, and Steve could understand that—it wasn't as if a ghost still had a functioning brain. He was merely a shadow of the man he used to be, so his only memories were mostly of his last moments, and sensations. He told Steve about what he looked like, though. He said his hair was dark brown, sometimes black, and that his eyes were blue. Not as light as Steve's, but something darker. Steve could almost picture it whenever he looked at Bucky, and it comforted him in the idea that Bucky used to be a beautiful man when he was still living and breathing.

And at night, Steve would be back on his couch, something microwaved in his lap because he was too lazy to make himself anything fancy after eight, and Bucky would be there again, watching reruns of silly talk shows and chick flicks that Bucky spent the whole time making fun of. Steve liked them, though, he liked sappy romance movies with happy endings and if it weren't to Bucky liking, he was always free to go hide in the fridge.

It wasn't until the morning of the fifth day that Bucky woke Steve up with a shove in the ribs, which Steve felt as a splash of ice water on his chest. He woke up with a gasp, and immediately noticed that Bucky was standing on the bed with him. If it weren't for the panicked look on the other man's face, Steve would have blushed at the way he was being casually  _straddled_. 

"Stevie, I just remembered I have— _had—_ a cat. There's a small helpless creature in my house and he must be starving. I can't believe I forgot, I'm such a _heartless_ bastard!"

Steve rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and reached for Bucky, his hand hovering over Bucky's shoulder, pretending to be giving him a comforting pat even though he couldn't.

"It's alright, you just give me your address and I'll go feed it."

That seemed to calm down Bucky's anguish, but it was immediately replaced by a look of sheer disbelief.

"You'd do that? You'd actually cross the whole town to feed a dead guy's cat?"

"You remember where you lived, then?" Steve said, although he cringed slightly when he realized he'd have to upset his plans, which were _not gonna leave this apartment until I'm absolutely forced to,_ but when he looked up at Bucky's hopeful expression, he found he couldn't take his words back. He'd never seen Bucky that excited about anything before and strangely enough, he wanted that expression to stay. He wanted to make Bucky happy.

"Well,  _I'm_ not a heartless bastard. I can't let a fluffy animal starve to death. Not if I can help it. Just let me take a quick shower, and put some clothes on and I'm going. I don't really have anything more urgent to do today."

As he was leaving his bed and making his way to the bathroom to relieve his bladder, Steve noticed the way Bucky was staring at him and it almost made him falter. There was gratitude written all over the ghost's face, along with a look of pure adoration, and Steve couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him that way. It made him flustered and clumsy.

If Bucky was still alive Steve would have shoved him playfully and made fun of him for caring so much about a _cat_.

But Bucky was dead, and he had been through enough shit to be made fun of. He seemed to be caring a lot about this cat, although he had forgotten about it for a while, and Steve would make sure Bucky's pet was properly taken care of. So he ignored the other man's look and breezed past the ghost on his bed without another word.

"I can't take it in, though, I hope you're aware of that," he added once he was in the bathroom, knowing that Bucky would hear him from the next room. "My landlord doesn't allow the tenants to have pets."

"It's OK," came the reply, "you're already doing so much, I wouldn't dream of asking you anything more."

 

* * *

 

Once he had the address of Bucky's old house, Steve took the subway. He hated it, and he hated taking it during his days off but it couldn't be helped. He could afford to buy a car, the trouble was that he wouldn't be able to afford taking care of it. He'd ruin himself which would be plain stupid when there was a much cheaper alternative. He still hated it, the nauseating smell and the other passengers gluing themselves to him nearly made him run outside at the first station. He managed to keep it together by sheer willpower, and an hour later he reached his destination.

Bucky lived in the suburbs, and when he stopped in front of his house Steve finally got the confirmation that indeed, Bucky used to be _loaded_.

His house was huge, and there was room for a spacious swing on the porch. From what he could see from the street, there was also a vast garden behind the house, but Steve hadn't come here to gawk at Bucky's palace of a house. 

 _The cat_ , he reminded himself as he crouched under the swing and started feeling the underside, looking for the spare key supposedly hidden there.

He found it without a problem, Bucky's instructions clear enough, and in no time he was unlocking the front door and letting himself in. Steve hoped nobody had seen him, wondering if the neighbors in the suburbs really spied each other as much as they did on TV.

The inside of Bucky's house was even more impressive than the outside, wooden floor everywhere and an impressively wide flight of stairs on his right leading to the second floor. Steve went straight ahead instead, remembering Bucky's advice. He had said the cat would be most probably hiding in the kitchen, because that's what he'd always do whenever he heard noise coming from the entry. He'd be standing by his food bowl, waiting to be fed by his master.

"Fury?" Steve asked quietly as he opened the door to the kitchen, the first one on the left after leaving the entry hall.

He couldn't help laughing internally at the silly name. Bucky was  _such_ a nerd. He'd pointed out how silly the name was and it had made Bucky grumble and almost throw him out of his own apartment. He had been _that_ embarrassed. It was so adorable.

Bucky had also told him his cat was the antisocial kind (which kind of reminded Steve of himself) and that he was also one-eyed which made him very clumsy and scared of almost everything. Steve had to be very careful and nonthreatening once he found him.

"Hey kitty, where are you?"

Steve closed the door behind himself and looked around. Spacious kitchen. Tastefully decorated. Latest technology everywhere. And no cat anywhere.

He walked past the dining table in the middle and found the bowls of water and food on the floor, and in the farthest corner a cat's box that was surprisingly odorless and clean.

There was suddenly a sound behind him, claws scratching polished wood, and Steve turned around.

"Fury?"

There was something moving under the table, and Steve quickly lifted a corner of the tablecloth to take a better look. And there it was, a small ball of black fur curled on itself at the foot of one of the table legs. It was shivering, hairs on its back standing on end and Steve even heard a warning hiss directed at him.

"Poor little fella," he muttered as he went on his knees and crawled under the table. "Hello, you. Do you wanna come out? No? It's alright. I'll just leave you some _—_ "

"Excuse me! Who are you!?"

At the unexpected screech, Steve reacted on instinct. He made to stand up, and banged his head hard against the table.

"Ah, _shit!"_

The cat had run away by the time he emerged from underneath the table, and he didn't have the time to think about it because there was a woman standing in the middle of the kitchen with her perfectly manicured hands on her hips, wearing a strict midnight blue blazer and a white scarf wrapped skillfully around her slim throat. Her light brown hair was tied into a bun, and everything about her spoke of money and power. And more money.

"I'm sorry, is this _—_ is this your house?" Steve asked, voice small and apologetic.

"No, it's my brother's. What are you doing here?"

"Well, _fuck_ , he remembers the cat but not  _the sister!?_ "

 The woman frowned, and Steve bit his lip when he realized he'd spoken out loud.

"What are you talking about?"

"I-I-I'm sorry, my name's Steve Rogers and I'm a... friend of Bucky's?"

He hadn't meant to make it sound like a question, but lying so boldly was so hard for Steve it was a miracle he could come up with anything.

"You're not  _exactly_ the type of people my jerk of a brother would befriend," she quickly replied as she eyed him suspiciously.

Steve tried to keep his cool but he couldn't help himself.

"Not manly enough?"

"Not  _macho_ enough," Bucky's sister corrected him, and her lips curved into a very tiny smile.

And just like that, the tension eased out of the room and she came to him with her hand extended. "My name's Rebecca. Nice to meet you, Steve. Now tell me, what are you doing here?"

Steve shook her hand and smiled in return. "Feeding the cat?"

Rebecca's tentative smile was still in place, and she squeezed his hand. "That's great, with my crazy schedule I can't come as much as I should, and the poor monster must be starving all the time. I was starting to think about sending it to a shelter. I'd have taken it home but my husband is allergic to cats."

Steve tried to keep up with Rebecca's endless chatter, but it was very difficult. She was still holding his hand, and he was starting to feel self-conscious about it but he thought better than complaining.

"If you could take it with you, if only temporary, you'd be my hero!"

"Wait, what? I never... I can't!"

"Please," she said, now holding his hand with both of hers, begging him to accept.

And Steve looked down at those pleading blue eyes _—_ dark and liquid and beautiful, probably similar to Bucky's _—_ and he knew he couldn't say no to her. Not to Bucky's sister. She was probably still  _grieving_ , for god's sake! Steve _couldn't_ say no.

"Damn. Alright." _  
_

"Oh, thank you! I can't believe Bucky's never told me about you, you're such a sweetheart!"

For a moment Steve thought she'd pinch his cheeks, but instead she leaned in and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. It made Steve blush furiously.

"I'll be going then, I have the kids to drive to dance class. The cat's carrier is somewhere in the hall, and you've got all its food and the litter bag in some of the cupboards of the kitchen. He doesn't like toys much, so you won't have to carry any of those. Just don't forget his bowls, and it should be OK. I'm sure he'll love you _—_ who wouldn't! Just make sure to leave your number somewhere so I can contact you. Alright, I'm gone, _ciao!"_

Rebecca gave him a quick hug, but Steve stopped her and took her gently by the arm.

"Rebecca, I'm sorry. About your brother. I'm sorry about what happened to Bucky. He didn't deserve something like that. Well, nobody ever does, but especially not him."

Rebecca's eyes filled with tears and she smiled weakly at him.

"Thank you, Steve. I'm sorry, too."

And then just like that, she was out of the kitchen. Steve heard the front door only a minute later, and then the sound of a car driving down the street. 

With a deep sigh, he sat down on one of the kitchen stools and let his head fall on the table with a _bang_.

Multiple times.

He wallowed in self-pity for a while, wondering how he was going to take care of another living being when a sad mewl interrupted his train of thoughts.

He slowly looked up, and got cross-eyed when he tried focusing on the cat's nose right in front of his face. Then the animal licked him, and Steve was smitten.

"Hi, Fury. You hungry, little buddy?"

The cat mewled again in acknowledgement and Steve nodded and stood up, careful not to scare it. When the cat didn't move and just kept staring at him, one eye tightly shut, looking like it'd been clawed out in a vicious cat fight, Steve decided to go looking for the cat's food, opening one cupboard after the other. The cat trailed after him, and Steve almost jumped out of his skin when he felt something rub against the back of his legs, the cat's purr resonating loudly in the spacious kitchen.

_Poor thing_ , Steve thought with a pang when he thought of how lonely Fury had been, and that's when he knew there was no way he'd be able to leave this house without taking the cat home.

"Let's get your belly full, then."

 

* * *

 

The first thing Steve did once he was back home was put down the carrier and all the bags filled with the cat's belongings and walk straight to the living room.

Bucky was, as expected, on the couch where Steve had left him with the TV on. When Steve stood firmly in front of him, Bucky raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" He ventured.

And Steve was about to give him the roasting of his life for forgetting to tell Steve about his  _sister_ , he really was, but that was the moment Fury chose to let out a very pitiful mewl from his carrier still sitting in the entry. And when Steve saw the way Bucky's eyes lit up at the sound, he completely forgot what he was so angry about.

"I brought you your stupid cat," was what he said instead, and he couldn't help cracking a smile at Bucky's excited shout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any incoherence with previous chapters, I am sooooo sorry. Please, signal it to me, I changed this chapter so many times I'm not even sure what's happening anymore.


End file.
